by Kate Elliott
“Adam,” said his twin brother, “believes in irony. But that still doesn’t explain your relationship to him. Or to our father.”
Lily looked at Windsor’s angry, set face, gauging what to reply, but Deucalion’s expression suddenly became remote, as if he was listening to someone else.
“Yes, I hear you. Another ship is coming in? Good. A what?” He seemed to be talking to himself, with appropriate pauses, but no one else thought it strange. “An open letter of credit? And they call themselves—the Forlorn Hope? The hard-luck fleet? Damn right I’ll want those specs checked.”
Lily got such a kick of adrenaline that she thought her heart was going to drop straight out of her. She could scarcely breathe. She did not dare speak.
“Well, it doesn’t matter right now,” Deucalion went on, dismissing whatever his unheard correspondent had just said. “Find out how much space they have on board. I’ll tell Administrator Iasi that we have a new casualty carrier for Turfan Link. Good. Put them in a berth convenient to Hospital and let me see their Captain when they’ve berthed. Out.”
His gaze returned to rest briefly on Lily. “I’d like to discuss this, min, but as you see we’ve got a disaster on our hands. Over eight thousand casualties, and we’re not equipped to handle them here. I’m sorry.” He turned toward the door to Iasi’s office.
“But I’m the captain of the Forlorn Hope!” Lily cried.
“Some people will say any damn thing,” said Windsor roughly. “Sorry, min,” he said to Deucalion. “For the interruption. We’ll get her out of here. Fred.”
Fred jerked her forward.
She resisted. “But it’s true. I am the captain. And Deucalion, he’s my father, too. You’ve got to—”
But Deucalion had already disappeared into Iasi’s office, and did not hear her. The adolescent Rio stared at her, curious in a half-repulsed way.
Fred picked her up bodily.
“Who’s your father?” Windsor asked.
“None of your damn business,” Lily snapped, but delivered from such an undignified position, her anger lacked any real force. Fred hauled her into the elevator with the others, and they started down to docking. “Aiding and abetting what?” she demanded. “I have a right to know those charges.”
Windsor sighed. “Aiding and abetting a dangerous fugitive. Now will you shut up?”
“Oh, hells,” she muttered. Felt the prick of tears, willed them gone. Hawk, of course. Hawk, who was now on the loose in the very region where he was accounted a dangerous fugitive. Slung over Fred’s shoulder, she felt it was impossible that she could find him before Concord Intelligence did.
And yet somehow, against all hope, the Forlorn Hope was coming in to Akan. That was something to start with.
8 A Pack of Hounds
ONCE FOUND, YAVARI HAD numerous tasks for them, none of which accommodated a manacled worker.
“I tell you what,” Yavari said finally, having sized up the situation without Windsor having to do much explaining. “We’ve got a security room up in Admitting for the occasional crazy—anyway, since I hear we’ll be shipping out over a thousand injured by tonight, maybe I can clear it for you. It’s small, but secure. If you’ll come with me, min Windsor, I’ll need you to show your license. And I don’t suppose”—he paused to look at the two Ardakians and at Lily standing between them—“Could you spare one of your companions to help? We just got a shipment of beds in—over there.”
Windsor took in loading with a comprehensive glance. “Fred, go on and help. Stanford, take min Heredes over to the corner there and stay there until I get back.” He tossed a spare measure of manacle tubing to Stanford. “Use this if you think you need it.”
Stanford led Lily over to the only quiet corner. He tightened the cords on her wrists and ankles and then trussed up her knees as well, and left her propped up in the corner while he settled a comfortable distance away onto his haunches. Getting out his slate, he was soon absorbed in some calculations. Except for the occasional glance he ignored her, although Lily suspected his other senses helped him keep track of her as well. She began to whistle Bach’s music, as much to practice her breathing as to remind herself of it. Next time she would not make the mistake of leaving Bach on the Forlorn Hope. It might even be that he knew what weaknesses the Ardakians had as physical opponents. Windsor she rated as dangerous by virtue of experience, but also out of shape and badly dissipated. The question with him was whether being on the edge made him more, or less, dangerous. She suspected the former.
She saw Fred now and then, out on the loading dock. The pace of activity was hurried, but orderly. It proved a soothing sight: the navy blue coveralls worn by the workers bore a passing resemblance to similar garments worn in Reft space. At least some things did not change much.
A flash of blue hair. Lily tensed. It resolved into a je’jiri half the warehouse away. The alien had stopped to speak to a man in coveralls. The man nodded, and the creature turned—but away from Lily—and walked out of sight.
She relaxed, letting a sigh escape. And, glancing back at Stanford, saw another je’jiri headed straight for her.
Stanford, startled by some instinct out of his concentration on his slate, looked up also. He did not so much stand as lift his chest, giving him the illusion of greater height.
“Hey. Honorable. This is a bounty prisoner. No parley. Comprend?”
The je’jiri stopped about five paces from Stanford. He had settled himself about four meters from Lily, but she could easily see that the alien’s proximity caused him considerable uneasiness.
“I beg pardon,” replied the je’jiri in clipped but precise Standard. “Honorable. I serve temporarily the administrator here. We are seeking blood”—it paused; Lily shuddered—“blood compatibility. Some human blood types are at low stock. If I may test your—” It paused again and looked at Lily, but in that same instant she recognized from Kyosti the slight tilt of the head and brief shuttering of eyes: it was taking in her scent.
“Why are they sending you around?” Stanford demanded.
The je’jiri curled back its lips. It had a ferocious smile. “We are faster than the lab.”
Stanford sniffed audibly and shifted yet another meter away from Lily. “Go ahead. But I request, honorable, that you be quick about it.”
“Certainly, honorable.” But its attention had already focused past Stanford onto Lily.
Lily consciously restrained herself from shrinking back as the je’jiri approached her. A certain loose, loping quality about its walk reminded her of Kyosti. Its hands, cradling a round basket of tubes and needles, had the same long-fingered, slender grace as his had. But its posture had a completely different set, as if each movement stemmed from an utterly dissimilar kinetic foundation
It halted beside and, bending its knees, crouched. Their eyes met on the level. The je’jiri’s were an overwhelming green.
“You will pretend, I hope,” said the alien in a soft voice, “that we are not discussing anything but this operation.” It drew a tube and needle from the basket.
Lily said nothing. She was waiting for it to touch her. Preparing herself not to recoil when it did. Barely managed it. The alien’s fingers were cool, moving lightly on her skin as it bound a strip of elastic around Lily’s arm. With a quick jab, the je’jiri slid the needle into place. Blood welled slowly up into the vial.
“You cannot be afraid of us,” stated the je’jiri. It was hard to make out shades of emotion in its clipped delivery. “You have a partner—a mate—who is je’jiri. Only a half-breed, but of the blood without question.” It paused.
“Yes,” said Lily, caught between repulsion and curiosity. “Yes, I do.” She glanced past the alien toward Stanford.
The je’jiri nodded. “Do not be troubled. If you speak softly as I do, the Ardakian does not hear. The pitch of our female voices is difficult for their hearing.”
Lily relaxed slightly. “You’re not here only to take a blood sample,” she said, careful
to speak quietly.
“I seek your help. I am the Dai of my family. We were cast here on Akan by our previous employer. Soon this calamity struck. Now we are truly stranded, with none to hear our plea. But you are bound to the greater family. We scented you when you entered the hospital. Now we seek your aid. We must get off this center.”
“But I’m a prisoner.”
“That we can help you with. If you can help us.”
“But in another week or two, traffic will have returned to normal. Then you can get a ship—”
The Dai cocked her head to one side, a curiously predatory, but unthreatening gesture. “You do not know of our custom? We do not serve for credit. We have none. We serve an employer, who thus provides all we need. Our world is not so impersonal as yours.”
“I see,” said Lily slowly, trying to remember what little she had heard about je’jiri on the decks of Yi’s and La Belle’s ships. She was not sure how Yi’s taking on a hunt related to this. “You want me to hire you.”
“Yes.” Some unfathomable expression crossed the je’jiri’s face. “We have a child. She will come into adolescence within the week. Already the signs begin to show. She must be isolated. In such chaos as this”—the briefest wave toward the loading dock—“We have one adolescent already, and it is difficult enough to manage him in such close proximity to humans. We have no wish to be forced into a hunt. Please, help us.”
The sheer unexpected appeal of the Dai’s words decided Lily—if the prospect of averting a hunt was not alone sufficient grounds. “You can free me?”
“Yes. Not immediately. We will be indebted to you, honorable mate, for this offer.”
Lily stared into those alien, green eyes, and felt suddenly that this creature, whatever other impulses it might harbor within it, as violent and horrible as those she had seen, was indeed a creature of honor. La Belle Dame had said as much.
“Hey,” called Stanford peevishly. “Are you done yet, honorable.”
“A ship will be docking,” said Lily, quickly and quietly. “The Forlorn Hope. I am that ship’s captain. Alert the crew. Free me. If no other way, then get me aboard as one of the casualties. And I will give you a berth on the crew.”
The je’jiri slipped the needle out of Lily’s arm with a delicate tug, and then lifted the vial to her lips. Tipping it, she touched her tongue to the red, fresh blood. Trapped against the wall, Lily could not run. She saw the murdered man on La Belle’s bridge with horrible clarity, and each je’jiri touching bloody fingers to thin lips. The same gesture their presence had forced out of Kyosti.
Stoppering the vial, the Dai rose.
Lily’s fear of the alien receded as her link to freedom began to move away. “They’re moving me,” she added hurriedly, before the Dai could go beyond earshot.
“We will find you.” Behind her, Stanford shifted as well, eyeing them suspiciously. “In any case,” she continued, just loud enough for Stanford’s benefit, “the hospital does need your blood type.” She turned, precise and elegant, grinned her ferocious grin at Stanford, and strode off.
Stanford let out a great sigh of relief. “I hate those blue-hairs,” he said, confiding in Lily as if they were suddenly best of friends. “They give me the willies. And they smell—not smelly like you humans. It’s more subtle, but it makes me dizzy.” He looked over at her and slid one meter closer, as if her presence made him feel better. “I don’t suppose you notice it.”
Lily smiled, deciding that perhaps she did not dislike Stanford as much as she thought she did. “No, I’m, afraid I don’t. They are—unnerving, though. What kind of groups do they travel in? We never saw them in Reft space.”
“A felicitous place, this Reft space,” replied Stanford. “I believe they travel in groups we would call families, or packs, ranging from ten to thirty people. Each family belongs to a larger unit, a clan, and each clan to a tribe. Tribes are autonomous. These are human terms, of course. I don’t know what the je’jiri call them in their own language.” He hesitated, looking doubtful. “I could look it up.”
“That’s all right. I don’t mind if you go back to what you were doing before.” Even on his alien face, she could read his relief. He turned back to his slate.
Lily considered her new family: ten to—thirty! She hoped it was a small group. Whatever else came of this, the Hope’s crew would know she was here. However they had followed her, they would know they had succeeded in finding her.
She was so heartened by this turn of events that she even greeted Windsor cordially when he returned. He had Stanford loosen her restraints, allowing her to shuffle to the elevator and then through Admitting into a small room with one transparent plastine wall: the secure room. It had room for a narrow bench and a single chair that swiveled down from the wall.
Lily sat on the bench. Stanford swiveled the chair back up and settled back in the space the chair had occupied. Windsor left, keying the door to lock behind him. Stanford got out his slate. Seeing his absorption, Lily lay down and willed herself to relax. Eventually she slept.
A certain amount of sound bled through the plastine wall. She was unsure what woke her, but she was alert instantly. She did not move or open her eyes, but listened. Heard it again. Faint, smothered by plastine and the low hum of bustle and movement, but distinctly there: Yehoshua’s voice.
Lily opened her eyes and yawned and stretched, as well as she could, then rolled up to sit. Out in Admitting a steady stream of stretchers flowed from the hospital wards out toward the concourse beyond. Most of the injured had some kind of tubing attached to their persons.
“What’s going on out there?” she asked casually, abruptly recognizing three sets of paired Ridanis carrying stretchers: Rainbow and Paisley, and four others of her Forlorn Hope crew.
Stanford glanced up from his slate. “Evidently they got a ship in to transfer more casualties to Turfan Link. They must be loading.” He looked out as well, surveying the scene. “A primitive method of transference, certainly, but doubtless their usual system is so overloaded that they have to resort to such measures to expedite the process.”
Yehoshua walked through Admitting, speaking with—to her great surprise—Deucalion. Deucalion did not even glance at the secure room, but Yehoshua did. His eyes met hers for a measureless moment and traveled on, seeming uninterested in her presence. Behind, several more pairs of the Hope’s crew went past, bearing stretchers. None looked her way.
Rainbow and Paisley appeared, carrying a stretcher. A sheet rested on it, covering a large, spherical object. At that same moment, from one of the wards, a je’jiri emerged. Lily thought it might have been the Dai, but immediately after, a second je’jiri appeared, and it was hard to tell which was the Dai—or even if either of them were.
Yehoshua stopped just beyond the door of the secure room, consulting a slate. Rainbow and Paisley, as if waiting for him, paused at the door itself, the stretcher lifted a little high, up against the lock panel.
A few moments passed. The two je’jiri approached the door, one carrying a basket of needles and tubing, the other a thin slate. They spoke briefly to Rainbow. Looking apologetic, she and Paisley moved away from the door.
Stanford sat up forward on his haunches. “What do they want?” he growled. He tucked his slate into his front pocket and shrugged his shoulders. It looked like a gesture of readying for battle.
The door slid open.
“What do you want?” He growled again, lower and not a little threatening. “I’ve got a prisoner in here. We have authority to hold her here without being disturbed.”
The je’jiri regarded him with an expression Lily could only call dispassionate. “I believe we have encountered before, honorable,” she replied, her formality contrasting with his belligerence. “I have authorization from the Administrator of this complex to draw blood from this human. Her blood type is relatively rare, and there is urgent need for transfusion.”
“How’d you get in here?” Stanford did not relax his aggressi
ve posture. Lily sat still on the bench, drawing her feet up so that she could stand quickly if necessary.
“The Administrator gave us the key, honorable,” answered the Dai smoothly. “You’ll find it all in there. Now, min.” She turned to regard Lily with those large, fathomless eyes. “If you’ll lie down. My companion, who is also female, will draw the blood.”
Lily lay down. The other je’jiri knelt, close in against the bed and began to assemble a needle and several vials. Stanford wrinkled up his nose and studied the slate. He held it gingerly between forefinger and thumb, as if it smelled bad.
Yehoshua walked in the door. “Is this the other casualty we’re supposed to bring along?” he asked. After several days with Windsor and the boys, his voice sounded oddly unaccented to Lily’s ear.
“No.” Stanford shrugged his shoulders twice and took one shuffling step forward. “Get out.”
“Sorry,” Yehoshua replied meekly and turned away.
Stanford looked beyond Yehoshua. “Orthodox tattoos,” he muttered. “I don’t like this.” Yehoshua was in the door, back to him. At that moment Jenny entered, obviously having missed her cue, from the concourse. Stanford clicked his teeth together. “Windsor,” he said to the air. “Trouble.” He launched himself at Yehoshua, pushing past the two je’jiri.
Someone cried a warning. Lily thought she might have. Yehoshua whirled and instinctively threw a back hand to Stanford’s chest—it connected with his face instead.
The force of the blow slammed Stanford backward. He hit the wall hard and collapsed on the floor, his eyes open but dazed.
For an instant, everyone just stared, including Yehoshua—who transferred his attention to the arm that had done the damage.
“It is fortunate,” said the Dai in a matter-of-fact voice, “that Ardakians have thick skulls.”
“Get me out of here,” snapped Lily, recovering from her shock.
The je’jiri retreated. Rainbow and Paisley entered, rolled her onto the stretcher without ceremony, and covered her to the top of her hair with the sheet. At her feet, Lily felt a cool, humming curve. Bach began to sing softly, but his words were muted by the sheet and by the sudden rush of noise as they hustled her out through Admitting.